Tate (Mountain Men 3)

She shakes her head. “All good.”

I pull us back on task. “Everything, Fran. Everything you know about Wales.”

“Well…” she looks to the left and winces a wee bit. It’s barely noticeable but I’m trained in watching for micro expressions. She’s hiding something.

Again.

“Your Mum filled you in quite a bit, didn’t she?”

“Not enough, though.”

She flinches, then nods. “Right, then. Okay, so… first, Aisla’s cousin works for the Welsh.”

What?

How could we have had someone right under our noses be affiliated with our enemies?

She shakes her head. “Don’t blame yourself or anything, seriously. When Aisla was hired by you, she passed every background check, and for good reason. It wasn’t until after she began working for you that her cousin was hired.”

“So it was the Welsh that failed a proper background check.”

Fran shrugs. “Well… not necessarily. It could’ve been intentional, couldn’t it have been?”

I blow out a breath angrily. “And you and Aisla never thought it prudent to mention this to us.”

“Well… no. My job was to get information for my books, Tate, not spy for you.”

She’s right. I exhale.

“Go on.”

“Aisla has the inside scoop with the Welsh, which is a good thing.”

I growl. “Good if you’re a romance writer looking for dirt.”

“Precisely.”

“Bad if you’re a high-ranking member of the mob trying to keep his family safe.”

She winces and gives me a sheepish look. “Yes.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Must be Bryn. Stay there.”

I leave Fran sitting on the sofa, while I go to answer the door. By force of habit, I look through the peephole to see who it is.

“Not Bryn. Islan’s come.”

Fran sighs. “I was afraid of that.”

What?

I open the door before I can ask her to elaborate.

Islan gives me a bright smile. Too bright. She’s positively glowing.

“Brought you clothes from Bryn,” she says with a smile. “She’s occupied with the children, so I told her I’d do her a favor.”

“Thanks.”

She looks over my shoulder, looking for her friend. "Need anything else?"

"Nope." I go to shut the door, but she shoves her foot in between the doorframe and door. Her eyes grow serious, and her voice gets stern. "She's my friend. Remember that."

“Oh, aye, I won’t forget.”

I gently but firmly put my hands on her shoulders and shove her the hell out.

I slam the door.

“So dramatic,” Fran says, but I can tell by the smile on her face that she’s pleased. Then the smile fades, and she grows more serious.

"I don't think she came here just to bring me the clothes."

"And what gives you that idea?" I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but fail miserably.

She doesn’t smile or look at me, but stares at her hands. Her voice is a whisper. “She’s afraid I’ll tell her secrets.”

Jesus. This is something to pay attention to.

“What secrets?”

I sit beside her on the couch, and she begins to wring her hands, an uncharacteristic move for her.

“Don’t ask me to tell you, please.”

“We’re not in a place where we can afford secrets right now. I’d be mistaken not to.”

“Tate, sometimes what’s sacred between sisters or friends has to stay sacred. God, I never should have said anything.”

“There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done.”

She flinches. I go on.

“And we can keep what’s sacred, sacred. But I know things that involve Islan that you don’t, and suffice it to say, it’s in her best interest for me to know everything.”

She groans. “First, let’s finish what we were talking about.”

I think on it, then exhale. “Aye, but we’ll circle back to this.”

“Aisla keeps me informed about Wales, and everything your mum said was corroborated by her.”

I nod. “Go on.”

She leans back on the sofa, getting comfortable. Jesus, she looks lovely there, all snuggled up in the corner. This morning when we went up to the house, she hadn’t done her hair or makeup. Now, her hair is dried all wavy and cute, framing her face in a way that makes me want to kiss her.

She tucks her knees up to her chest. I’ve studied human behavior before, and body language. I have to do my job. And the way she’s sitting now tells me she’s unconsciously protecting herself. She’s scared of what I’ll do to her.

And while a part of me rejoices in that, and says yes, that’s exactly what I want, I want her to fear me… a part of me doesn’t.

I liked Fran vulnerable and trusting.

And I’ll do what it takes to bring her back.

So I push myself up from the chair and cross the room to her. I sit beside her. She shifts a little but continues to speak, and I don’t touch her quite yet.

“I’ve got a contact in the McCarthy Clan, too,” she says quietly. She twirls a piece of hair between her fingers and looks away, as if she knows she shouldn’t be telling me this.